Lynah Rink is small enough that someone leading a cheer in Section E can be identified and personally complimented by a discerning fan in Section B in the hallway in between periods. That’s probably the greatest thing about Lynah. So when it was announced that the Big Red was to embrace the Big Apple and battle Boston University at Madison Square Garden in a 2007 debut, we all had big expectations.

The Garden! Home to the New York Knicks and the New York Rangers, and probably to some New Jersey team that loves to share stadiums with New York. But to whomever it belongs, this was Madison Square Garden: an arena in the heart of New York City. There would be multiple levels of seating, rows that numbered more than 17, a giant electric scoreboard (hello, instant replays!) hanging from the ceiling. It would be huge, overtaking Lynah like the Thurston Ave. bridge to North Campus towers over its cute little neighbor, the footbridge. But when I arrived, matched my ticket to my seat and actually sat down (which was strange), I was surprised. Something about the Garden was, well … small.

It wasn’t the fact that I am especially tall, standing proudly at 5-3 (with shoes). It also wasn’t that I had been to the Garden before, because I had not. I had no delusions of grandeur during the game, nor was I hoisted up on the shoulders of my fellow seatmates. I was just your regular Big Red fan in my yet-to-be-washed hockey jersey.

So I pondered the situation. First I thought about Slope Day. Go ahead and picture it. I know it might be hard to stop the swirling images. Perhaps you should lay down … maybe you remember a horizontal view of the day better. In any case, the bare slope without the happy spring-fevered students looks vast, incapable of being conquered laterally. But add the music and the people, and it begins to shrink. Could my perception of the Garden have been skewed by a simple principle of psychology? I would not have it. There had to be something else.

As I continued to take it all in, I realized that I recognized a lot of the faces around me. I even spotted several familiar figures from a section across the way. Though barely discernible, I was sure it was them. I looked up at the big screen hanging from the center of the ceiling and saw that the camera guy had captured a few seconds of some other friends to broadcast to the arena. The images changed and I recognized more and more faces. The Garden was becoming more and more like the familiar Lynah that I knew. I heard the common cheers, followed by the louder response of those who answered in unison. But the response didn’t come from the voices I recognized. Many instead came from those who wore the Big Red gear, but were clearly no longer students. I searched further in the crowd and saw just how many variations of the Cornell sweatshirt truly existed from years past. Some were haggard and surely bore tales worthy of being passed to grandchildren; some fans even brought their grandchildren. Here I was in a sea of Red, outside my typical Cornell boundaries, but never having felt more a part of Cornell. I watched the row in front of me lead a nontraditional cowbell cheer with multiple participants and instruments, and totally accepted it. This was their tradition when they were students. And I understood it. It was then that I realized that attending Cornell meant far more than having the opportunity to spend four years here. We have been embedded in a community and can choose to take advantage of that as much as we please.

Exiting the arena at the end of the game with my new insight, I noticed that community more and more. As much as this game was an event for the Big Red fans, it was an even bigger reunion for those who no longer have their season tickets stowed in their drawers, and for those who no longer hear the alma mater at 1:20-ish every afternoon. As round two of the Garden showdown approaches, I’m reminded of this sentiment. Let’s seize what we have while we have it, but realize that we have it for as long as we want it.